Cracked
by H.T.Marie
Summary: Dean's head is like a Timex. It takes a licking and keeps on ticking. He always bounces right back. Except this time. Hurt!Dean for apieceofcake who bought me in the fics4books auction.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This fic is for apieceofcake who won me in the fics4books auction. The auction was for a minimum 5000 words Gen H/C fic. She didn't really have a prompt. I watch entirely too much Mystery Diagnosis on Discovery Health Channel. So, this is what I came up with. There's obviously more to come.

**Warnings: **Language. That's about it. Also, not betaed and not yet finished.

**Summary: **Dean's had a lot of concussions. He always bounces right back. This time is different. Hurt!Dean, Comforty!Sam. Brotherly angst and schmoop. For apieceofcake.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. I got no right. I do it anyway. Somebody stop me. No defamation or infringement intended in this work of fiction.

**Cracked**

It's nothing new, really. Just a variation on a theme. Twenty-something years in the life, and he's nearly got being thrown into things down to a science. Of course, it's the variation, the 'nearly' that's probably going to get him killed one of these days. He's not entirley sure today isn't the day when, instead of a nice, flat wall, his forehead makes a beeline for the open door. Not the doorway. That would be way too convenient. The door itself. And the thing about two inches of steel to the frontal lobe? It hurts like Hell.

"Dean!" It's the Sam Winchester fight song, a sure sign things have gone downhill fast.

Dean knows he's expected to respond with the U-rah-rah portion of the cheer, something snarky and Dean Winchester patented. All he manages before the world goes from white to red to black is, "Not the face, bitch!" He chokes on something pooling in his throat before he finishes the sentence, and passes out to the blessed sound of Sammy's Glock somewhere close by.

--

It's not his first concussion, not by a long shot, so when the staticky fizz of consciousness starts to bubble up behind his eyelids, he's in no hurry to break the surface. In his experience, blissfully shrouded in darkness is, by far, the best way to spend his recovery time. Just about anything's preferable to putting his head in a vice and letting beams of light drill through his eye sockets into his brain while blood pounds and crackles in his ears like a beat boxer with a vendetta.

He approaches the surface three or four times, just enough to be sure he's still breathing, and lets himself slip back under. In his mind, the entire process takes a few minutes, an hour at the most, but the white-painted walls and daylight streaming through the hospital room window when he finally cracks an eyelid suggest it's been longer than that.

"Two days."

Dean turns his head toward the sound of the familiar voice, immediately regrets that decision, or lack thereof as his skull gives a throb that reverberates through his guts.

"Whoa, whoa. Just take it easy, You've scrambled your upstairs brain a little bit. It'll take awhile for the downstairs one to pick up the slack." Ah, the banter of the thinly disguised mother hen, no doubt hovering over her nest and driving the nurses crazy with its clucking.

Dean raises a hand to his forehead, the familiar drag of i.v. lines sending a cold tingle down his arm. His fingertips brush a thick patch of gauze and tape in what feels like an x-shape just over the bridge of his nose. The area beneath it feels tender like maybe his skull's been replaced with ground beef and silly putty. Fucking zombies. If the bitch messed with his face...

"Don't worry, dude. You're still pretty enough for Shrek."

"Jackass," Dean grumbles, and damn if he can't see the soundwaves against his eyelids.

"That's Donkey," Sam corrects, his fingers cold and clammy against Dean's wrist as he pulls it away from the bandage. "And I wouldn't be stirring up the old grey matter if I was you."

"I can't believe you brought me to a hospital for a concussion."

"Your nose was gushing blood, man. I couldn't stop it, and you wouldn't wake up. I was afraid you'd choke," Sam clears his throat, and even though Dean's sure he doesn't realize how loudly he's doing it, he can't stop himself from recoiling away from the sound of his brother's voice. "And it's good thing I did. You swallowed so much blood, you threw up all over the E.R." He says that like it means something, then clarifies. "We'd have never got the deposit back on the room."

"Good to know you're looking out for our bottom line," Dean huffs between stabs of pain.

"Be nice if you'd look out for _yours_," Sam says.

"I would if you'd stop wearing that zombie pheromone cologne you're so fond of. What the fuck was that?" He hears Sam laugh, a relieved exhale he's probably been holding for the whole two days.

"You remember, then?"

"You tried to take out a zombie with your bare hands. Of course I remember," he grouses. "It was a stupid-assed thing to do." He coughs a little from his tongue sliding back in his throat. Lying flat on his back has never been a good position for him. At least not for sleeping alone. "Thought I taught you better."

"I was trying to sneak up on her, and I would've done it, too, if you hadn't got your Superman tights in a bunch."

"And you were going to do what when you caught her? Poor salt on her tail? It was a zombie, Sam, not Heckyl and Jeckyl." He blinks his eyes open, squinting enough so all three of Sam's heads migrate front and center, but refrains from raising an eyebrow when the muscles in his forehead give a twinge of protest.

"I had a plan," Sam says, and now that Dean can see the dark circles under his eyes, the complete lack of humor in them despite the inflection of his voice, Dean's tired for him, sorry to be so much trouble.

Dean looks away, smoothing the sheet over his chest to busy his hands. "For future reference, let's clear all plans with each other before going off half-cocked."

"Do as you say and not as you do, right?" This time, there's a hint of exasperation in his voice, but that's as far as it gets.

"You know it," Dean mutters, "bitch."

"Jerk," Sam retorts, sinking into the chair a little further. His skin's tacky from two days of not leaving Dean's side, sticks and stutters against the vinyl as he slumps lower. Each juddering squelch twangs off the thin veil of consciousness like ping pong balls bouncing off Dean's brow bone. This has got to be the worst concussion ever.

Screwing his eyes shut against the outside world seems to have just enough of a dampening effect to make it all bearable, that and breathing through his mouth so he can't hear the whistling in his sinuses. It's not the most comfortable sleep, but they both sink into it together.

--

"Sam, I swear, if you don't stop hovering, I'm gonna knock your ass out." Dean pushes the glass of water away, shakes the motel endtable with his fist when he slams the three Tylenol down on top. It's his best self-righteous indignance, though it's not entirely genuine, considering he just swallowed four Tylenol himself while Sam was out getting groceries. The only thing worse than Sam worrying and forcing meds on him is Dean knowing the worry is justified and self-medicating behind his brother's back. "I'm fine."

"You got out of the hospital two days ago, and you're still sleeping more than waking up. Yesterday, you watched a Dora the Explorer marathon because the remote wasn't within arm's reach, and you don't get up at all except to go the bathroom. I don't think you're fine."

"Me duele la cabeza, Sam," he says with a glare. "See? Educational t.v. is educational. Don't knock the Dora. She totally rocks."

"I'm not laughing," Sam says arms crossed as he glares across the span between the two beds. Dean can only see him from the corner of one eye, because the throbbing between his eyes is only bearable if he keeps one forearm laid across them, and turning his head is completely out of the question.

"Well, you should. That scowly thing you got goin' on is not a good look on you."

"And pain isn't a good look on you."

"That's a lie and you know it. Every look is good on me. I'm irresistible." He makes the mistake of grinning. It's a habit. "Ah!" He should really work on breaking that one, 'cause whoa.

"Here," Sam says with a sigh. "I got you some of those rapid chill ice packs." Something cold thumps against Dean's shoulder and sends a jolt through his collar bone, up his neck, to inner ear, and then forehead. It's true what they say, the ankle bone is connected to the leg bone, and so on and so forth. At this point, Dean would be willing to fund scientific research that would allow for concussed heads to be detached and packed in some of that space foam and reattached once the brains have unscrambled themselves.

Sam must see him wince just from the jarring of the soft ice pack. "I think we should take you back to the hospital." It's almost whispered, obviously something Sam's been thinking for awhile but hasn't been able to speak out loud. Dean knows he must look like shit to force it out of him. "You've never been laid out like this from a concussion before. I think there's more to it."

"No, Sam. The doc said that the injury was in a sensitive spot, so it might take longer." He squashes the ice pack in his fist a few times and lays it on his forehead as gently as he can, but still can't stifle the grunt of pain at the initial contact like an icicle pounding through his skull. "And you know, the second we go back in there, they'll order more tests. Our fake insurance doesn't cover MRI's. We barely sneaked by with the CT scan they ordered when you brought me in."

"Dammit, Dean, I don't care."

"Well, you should." Dean's more than aware of how husky his voice is, his throat still convulsing a little from the brain freeze. "This'll go away. It always does."

"One of these days it won't."

Dean gives up on waiting for the ice to actually feel good and drops the pack to the floor with a thud. "Thanks for the advice. Is this coming from psychic!Sammy or just his pissy counterpart? Nice to know you have so much faith in me."

"I'm just saying..."

"Well, don't."

"You're... rrgh, you're an ass, Dean."

"Just don't be bouncing any nickels off me 'til the headache goes away, and I can live with that."

Sam slams the bathroom door as he leaves in a huff. Dean makes a mental note to put a trash can over his head and hit it with a wooden spoon next time he has a headache.

Payback's a bitch.

--

"What are you doing?" Sam passes between Dean and the television, his shins at eye level as Dean lays with his head hanging off the foot of the bed.

"Looking up Jennifer Love Hewitt's skirt," Dean says. And it actually doesn't hurt. Things are looking up. Literally and figuratively.

"Do you really think you should be doing that?" Sam asks. "Seems like all the blood rushing to your head would make it hurt worse."

"Yeah," Dean harrumphs, "You'd think."

"So, it doesn't?"

"Would I be doing this if it did?"

"I dunno. I'm starting to think you have a pain kink." Dean hears him sliding his shoes on from the other bed. "Seriously, that's really helping?"

"Are you kidding? It's the first time I've had both eyes open in three days without having to guess which of you I was talking to. I like to think of it as traction for my head."

"I should've known it was dislocated, since you were talking out of your ass."

"Good to know my suffering inconvenience you. There'd be no fun in it otherwise."

Sam laughs what sounds like a genuine laugh. The first one since Dean met the door. It's kinda better than Tylenol. "I'm going out for food. You wanna come along?"

"I'd love to," Dean says, rolling onto his side and then sitting up slowly, "but whew," he says wafting a hand over the sweat stain on his t-shirt, "I think any decent establishment would toss me out as a code violation."

Sam grins, and Dean's completely aware of the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, studying every twitch and movement Dean makes for obvious signs of pain. He's just glad he doesn't have to try to hide anything. He actually feels pretty decent.

"Since when do we eat at decent establishments?" Sam asks.

"Good point," Dean smirks, "but still, I only talk outta my ass. I don't care to go around smelling like one."

"I can wait if you wanna shower first," and there's something pleading in his eyes that makes Dean unable to brush him off.

"Yeah, sure. Just gimme fifteen minutes." He stands, slowly, puffs out his bottom lip appreciatively when the room doesn't try to slide out from under him.

Sam rolls his eyes and mimics Dean's fanning hand gesture. "Make it half an hour. You just killed my appetite."

Dean just smirks and takes off his t-shirt. If it lands on Sam's freshly showered head when he tosses it over his shoulder, he's okay with that.

--

He ends up taking a lot longer than thirty minutes. He knows, because Sam's been pounding on the door for at least ten already. It's just, hot water and steam, fresh pink skin emerging from under day sof muck, has got to be the closest thing there is to sex, and man, Dean's got some frustration going on.

It feels good just to be able to breathe through his nose again. It's been like cleaning out his sinuses with sandpaper and a dremel tool. Sam's been complaining about the snoring, and Dean's tired of having to flip his pillow to avoid the growing puddle of drool. Now, the steam's soothing, goes in soundlessly, which is a definite plus, drips down the back of his throat where he's all dried up and wrung out. Even the strong water pressure pelting the shower droplets against his forehead is more like a massage than water torture.

Pore all over his body open up and take their first breath in days with a collective sigh... Oh, fuck, he needs to get outta there. The bliss seems to be messing with his higher functions. No way in hell did he just muse about pores breathing. He turns off the water, the faucets squeak, squeak, squeaking into the closed position, flicks the moisture out of his eyes with his fingertips just as Sam pounds on the door for the third time.

"Dude, you all right in there?"

"That depends," he shouts back.

"On what?"

"You feel like washing my back? I think I missed some."

"Fuck you." That's a definite laugh. It's good to hear Sam laughing and relieved for a change. Dean can't wait to get out of this room.

He smears the fog off the glass, can't help a small wince at the sight of the green and yellow bruise in the center of his forehead, spreading in colored streaks across the bridge of his nose and around both eye sockets. He's actually had worse, but not much.

He makes it through his entire routine without a hitch. The three 'S's as Dad always called it. He's halfway through the last one, 'shave' when the steam saturates his sinuses and starts to drip out one nostril. He sniffs and swallows long enough to finish shaving, then reaches for a handful of toilet paper.

The second he starts to blow his nose, there's an explosion between his eyes, and his knees buckle. He catches the edge of the sink on reflex alone, because he can't see it, can't see anything, the entire room spinning and then whiting out while a tone like the off-air color bar siren on a television set splits the pleasant numbness wide open again.

One hand catches on the hot water faucet as Dean slumps down between the sink and the toilet, causing the water to gush out in a rush, the pipes quaking and groaning at the sudden shift in pressure. "Nnnnngghh." He cracks the back of his head against the tile, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples while stifling a scream.

Agony rolls over him in waves, every muscle spasming simultaneously, bracing against an attack from within. When his stomach convulses, he barely gets his head over the toilet before his throat's burning with acid. He's breathless by the time the heaving subsides, unable to breath through his nose, panting between each painful retch. By the time it's over his eyes are leaking as much as his nose but not for the same reason.

He sits, drenched in cold sweat, waiting for the room to feel still again before he even attempts to open his eyes. He's still there when Sam pounds the door again.

"Dude, you could've shaved King Kong by now. C'mon, I'm starved."

Spreading his fingers one at a time to peek through his eyelashes, Dean breathes a sigh of relief. The vertigo seems to have passed, the pain settling into a dull thud in his forehead as opposed to the wooden stake through the third eye sensation of a few moments ago.

Bracing shaking arms on the toilet tank and the sink, he drags himself to standing.

"You all right?" Sam asks, both the laughter and the impatience gone from his voice.

Dean raises his face to the mirror, elbows trembling but locked against the sink ledge, looks himself right in the watering, bloodshot eyes, and says, "Yeah, fine. I'll be right out."

That sucked. But Dean's had worse.

Sam doesn't need to know.

TBC

A/N: Er, okay, so that last bit was a little cliche. *is ashamed* But if people didn't like it so much, I wouldn't be inclined to do it, and besides, it just fits with my mystery diagnosis. *pets Dean*


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay in updating. Turns out the holidays were hectic despite my cancellation of Christmas, and in my desperate attempt to finish a Christmas fic for another auction winner (which I totally failed at, BTW) everything else was put on hold. I hope this makes up for it.

**A/N2:** If my calculations are correct tomorrow is **apieceofcake**'s birthday. Happy Birthday, Jo! MWAH!

A/N3: This part isn't betaed, but **chemm80** spent the whole day on IM with me the other day working out the best way to present this condition without giving it all away at once. There aren't enough smishes in the world for her.

**Chapter Two**

"Hey, Sam...Sam, check me out," Dean prods. He runs a comb through his hair, pushes the new pair of sunglasses up his nose, and gives himself a thumbs-up in the display mirror. "Aaaaayyy," he growls in his best Fonzie voice. He's not fazed in the least by the eye roll Sam gives him in the reflection over his shoulder.

"Another pair of sunglasses? You've already got more than Carrie Bradshaw's got shoes." Sam tosses two more packages of socks and one more of underwear into the cart next to the Rollback flyers and the toothpaste. They're not too proud to get clothes from the Goodwill, but no way they're wearing used underwear.

"Carrie Bradshaw? Dude, I knew you were into chick tv."

"C'mon, Dean, 'Sex and the City?' It's pop culture. You know you've watched it."

"Yeah, well, I thought it was going to be porn, and for the record, those girls could've all done better."

"Better like what?"

"Better like," Dean shrugs, "I dunno, me or even you. I swear, they found the biggest losers to hook up with."

"Losers, like guys who buy cheap sunglasses in bulk from Wal-Mart?" Dean doesn't have to turn around to see the smirk. He hears it just fine. "You'd have been Mr. Muscle Car or Mr. Little..."

Dean hits him in the back of the head with the next pair of sunglasses, effectively changing the subject. He gestures toward display sign when Sam rolls his eyes like Rollback is an order from Dad instead of just a bad slogan. "Hey, ten bucks," Dean shrugs, "Can't beat that. Might as well stock up."

"They're banking on that, you know? That you'll buy more than one and end up spending more money than if you'd just bought a good one the first time. Like charging three dollars for a pint of milk and four dollars for a gallon. They count on you buying the gallon."

"That would be stupid. We don't have a refrigerator," Dean says.

"That's not the point..."

"Exactly. The point is, sour milk is gross..."

"...and wasteful..."

"Yeah, that... and I don't have any glasses like these. These make me look hot."

"That's what you said about the blue ones you bought last week, and the aviators you got three days ago, and those hi-tech rearview ones you got online..."

"For your birthday."

"For MY birthday," Sam agrees, "which I never got to wear because..."

"They looked better on me. AND they made me nauseous, so I totally did you a favor."

"Wait, they made you nauseous? You never told me that."

Dean realizes with a start that he's probably said too much, but then, they were rearview sunglasses. He's pretty sure no one would be able to stand being able to see forward and backward at the same time. Probably why those secret service dudes stand so still. To keep from puking all over their expensive suits.

"Not the point," Dean dismisses. He drops that pair in the cart, squinting his way over the rest of the rack, picking over the mirrored lenses with intense scrutiny, because Sam's right-- there aren't many styles he doesn't have already. "The point is..." he rubs over his forehead with calloused fingertips, willing his eyes to focus on just one pair. "...I don't have a pair like this."

"Like what?" Sam exasperates. "Cheap and plastic?"

"N--" he flinches internally as his own word threatens to lance through his skull, clears his throat and picks a lower register. "No. Like this, with the wraparound sideshields and the 100percent UV protection..." he points each feature out like he's trying to peddle them on QVC. "...and the foam tubes around the earpieces for extended wear." This would be where he'd waggle his eyebrows if he still did that. Luckily, Sam doesn't notice the omission. There's something to be said for cheap sunglasses.

"Extended wear," Sam nods rolling his tongue behind his teeth. "Tell me again why you feel the need to wear them all the time. You put 'em on with your socks anymore. At first I thought you were going for the Tom Cruise in Risky Business look, but now it's more of a Corey Hart vibe."

Dean has to smirk at that. He was actually thinking ZZ Top, but now that Sam mentions it... Flipping up his collar, he doesn't even notice the price tag dangling off the nose piece as he pushes the glasses farther up his face and sings, "I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can," alternates shoulders as he sings like he's strutting in place, "so I can, see the light that's right before my eyes..." He pauses dramatically, does frame hands like a director visualizing a shot, goes all in... "While she's..." He starts separating the hands in a broad-sweeping gesture as he hits the high note, and "...shit..."

He doesn't just hear that note; he sees it in ultra hi-def with supernova backlight. They haven't yet invented sunglasses to wear inside the eyelid. Dean's funding that research along with the stuff on detachable heads. It's all he can do to brace himself against the rotating carousel before he actually starts to sway. Half a dozen pairs of glasses shake loose and drop to the linoleum at his feet before Sam steps in and grabs his arm.

"Dude, what was that?" Sam's voice is hushed and shaky, his fingers tight enough around Dean's bicep to leave a bruise, dismissing any chance he had of passing his clumsiness off as just bad choreography. "You all right?"

Dean shrugs him off with a sheepish grin. "I'm fine Sam," he lies, "just... distracted." The woman behind the jewelry counter across the aisle isn't his type at all, a few years his senior with too much makeup and horn-rimmed glasses, but she's at least a D-cup, so when he glowers at her chest over the frames of his sunglasses, it's not entirely improbable. Anyway, it's the best cover he can come up with. Sam's only half as grossed out as Dean's expecting, which will definitely factor in the next time he picks up a chick with Sam in the vicinity. He does have an image to uphold, after all.

He's admittedly not picking up a lot of chicks lately. Again... beside the point.

"You're such a horn dog," Sam grumbles as Dean takes over the cart and saunters away. "You're not even going to pick those up?" he asks, gesturing toward the fallen merchandise.

"Nope." He doesn't say he's got his hands wrapped so tightly around the push rail on the cart that he can't feel his fingertips or that there's no way in hell he'd ever get up again if he crouched down that far. In fact, he just doesn't say anything. Sam already thinks he's got the manners of a Three Stooges reject. Wouldn't want to ruin his perception.

"You're an ass," Sam accuses.

"And you're a geek. It'll grow on you after awhile."

"They have creams for that."

"Compound W."

"W-w..." Sam shuts up and tosses another pack of underwear in the cart. Dean'll lay money they're a couple sizes too small.

--

"You're kidding."

He's so not, but Dean can understand why Sam would think so. If he hadn't said it himself, he wouldn't believe he's serious either.

"What?" Dean asks. "You don't think I can handle it?"

Sam drops the stack of books on his bed, flops down beside them haphazardly, leans back on his pillow, arms behind his head, tongue poking the inside of his cheek while his mouth drops slightly open, studying Dean. "Are you sick or something?"

"No!" Dean insists. "Did it ever occur to you that I may want..." he swallows thickly around the next words, because, well just because, "I may want to better myself?" Man, it sucks when a guy has to make up a whole slew of imperfections just to cover up one small, like, teeny, iddy bitty, barely even there, shortfall. So, he's not at the top of his game. No one stays there forever, right?

Sam's making it harder and harder not to just come out with it, how his head hurts all the time, how his eyes can't handle bright light, or sudden movement. How loud noises make him nauseous, and he'd sleep through breakfast and lunch if he could get away with it. Three months since he got out of the hospital, and he's gotten good at coping, which boils down to a whole lot of lying and sleights of hand. It's bound to get better. Everything does with time, right? He really doesn't see the point of ratting himself out now.

"Um, no. Last time I heard, you were awesome. Got that straight from the horse's mouth, a.k.a. your ass," Sam quips.

Dean feigns hurt, like he's been slapped in the face, but even the wrinkles on his forehead throb,and he only gives it a half-hearted effort. "I do not talk out of my...," he shrugs, "well, okay, sometimes I do, but that's all part of my disguise, y'know, like Clark Kent's glasses."

"Oh, so under the cocky exterior, there's really a man in tights."

Well, shit. Dean's little attempt to draw attention away from his throbbing headache is turning into an even bigger pain in his ass. Scrubbing his hand over his pounding forehead and back through his hair, he chuckles weakly. "Ha, friggin' ha." He exhales long and slow, imagines something warm and soothing flooding in behind it to take away the constant ache and the exhaustion of hiding it. It doesn't work. It never does. "Look, just... I'll read the incantation and you take the shot. Once I summon the bastard, you'll probably only get one good shot in. The S.O.B's are fast as fuck. Just take the shot and make it a good one. Ya think you can handle that?"

He's not Dean anymore. He's Dad. He knows the tone in his own voice too well, the one that says, 'when the hell did _because I said so _stop being a good enough reason for Sam,' and, 'I don't have the time or the energy to debate every damned thing.' Dean hears it, and he can tell by the way Sam rises into a sitting position and rests with his hands on his knees instead of answering that Sam hears it, too.

"Look, Sam, I'm..."

"Okay. Whatever. We'll do it your way, Dean." He lurches to a stand and stalks across the room.

"Don't... Sammy..."

"Just let me piss before we go," he snips. "I wouldn't want to we myself or anything." He probably doesn't slam the bathroom door. Sam was always far better at throwing words than tantrums. It still sounds like he slams it, though, and Dean falls back on the bed, his head hanging off the far side.

How did things get so complicated?

--

Two days later, they're back in Wal-Mart. They hunt went fine, except for the part where Sam missed the first shot and ended up with pretty good slash across his ribs. Nothing serious, and he got the next shot just fine, but sore ribs are a bitch to deal with on long car rides, so they're still here in... Dean can't even remember where they are. That doesn't say much for his chances of ever coming back. Certainly won't make the short list of places Dean would retire in if he lived long enough. Admittedly, there aren't many towns on the list. He's only been compiling it since that door introduced itself to his face. He might be taking too literally the old adage that says, 'when one door closes, another one opens.' It's a bad analogy anyway, since the door was open when it kicked his ass.

Dean's having trouble believing Sam dragged them back here to return the underwear they bought on their last outing. (As Dean suspected, they were the wrong size.) Dean certainly doesn't have any use for the place. He's already picked through their stock of sunglasses, but if Sam can drag himself down there with one arm clasped against his injured ribs, then the least Dean can do is drive him there.

Why Sam won't let him stay in the car is a whole other mystery, and Dean doesn't have the energy to figure it out after circling the parking lot three times just to find a to park in the shade.

"You're not parking here," Sam says, puzzled.

Dean throws the car in park and turns off the engine. "Looks like," he dismisses.

"Dean, you never park under trees. You're paranoid about bird sh..."

"Well, I don't want to sit in the sun. And a bird wouldn't dare lift a tail feather while I'm here."

"I thought you were coming with me," he says, getting out and then talking down through the open door.

"I said I'd drive. You don't really need me there to explain to the lady at the service desk about how your panties are riding up, do you?"

Sam actually seems disappointed. Shoulders slouching, he gazes off across the parking lot, his face pinched like he's looking into the sun. "But I...," the pinch disappears and is replaced by that high-brow eager beaver gaze that always gets Dean into trouble. "There's a Subway in the store. I thought we'd get lunch since you slept through breakfast. They have that sandwich you like...the uh..."

"Italian with extra jalapenos. I know which sandwich I like, Sam, but it's a little early for extra jalapenos, don't you think?"

"It's five o'clock somewhere," Sam smirks, turning one of Dean's favorite lines around on him. "You can even get cotton candy, and I'll win you a toy out of that claw machine. We'll make a day of it."

"What'm I, your date?" Sam's got to be kidding.

"No...just...c'mon, Dean. We haven't been out of the room in two days, and we don't have any plans. Let's just get out and walk around for awhile. Get the blood flowing." Sam leans against the roof of the car, hip cocked in defiance, "and if you say no, I'm gonna do all that stuff myself and leave you out here with the grackles for hours."

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

Oh, he so would.

"I hate you," Dean grumbles as he gets out of the car.

Sam shrugs lopsidedly, "aww, just so long as you care."

Dean flips him the bird and smirks into one of the parking lot security cameras as he does.

--

Okay, so Dean admits, cruising the aisle of the Super Wal-Mart isn't the worst way to pass the time of day. Well, except for the part where they don't sell the good magazines here. The place is like a crash course on the modern American, something Dean realizes he's grossly out of touch with when he stumbles into the gardening center and gets just a little turned on by a zero-turning-radius-sixty-inch-cutting-deck-more-horses-than-could-possibly-be-necessary riding lawn mower... with a drink holder for his beer. Oh yeah, there's a definite Tim Taylor rumble low in his gut when he kicks the tires on that baby.

And then there's the toy department. One aisle of the stuff he actually remembers from when he was a kid, matchbox cars and bouncing balls, hula hoops, water pistols in neon colored plastic, and yo-yos. Eight aisles of remote control, magnetized, flying, crying, peeing, pooping, glow-in-the-dark, talking, teaching, singing, giggling, dancing, and altogether horrific things he's sure ought to traumatize a kid with any good sense. It's no wonder no one believes in the supernatural anymore, when this shit is considered normal.

Not that he doesn't take the opportunity, while Sam's puzzling over a Rubik's cube, to commandeer a display model of the Dale Earnhardt, Jr. remote control race car. He takes entirely too much pleasure in running it down the dolly aisle at top speed shouting "Barbie causes eating disorders," through the in-car mike. Ah, a super hero's work is never done. Most fun he's had in ages. Of course, the shiny wears off when Sam kicks his ass playing Gran Turismo 4 on display in the electronics department. He should've known better than to let Sam pick the track. Over a decade driving a boat like the Impala makes him completely unsuited for rally courses.

"You know there is a brake on that car, Dean."

"Brakes are for pussies," Dean retorts. The rough clearing of a throat behind him is the only warning they get before they're run out of that department. "What?" Dean says, jerking he sleeve out of the associate's grasp. "It's not like I'm corrupting innocents. I could totally be talking about Sylvester the cat. They wouldn't know any different if you didn't make such a big stink about it. And look at Dennis the menace, over there. He's laughing his ass off. Something tells me he knows worse words than that."

"That's not the point, sir," the balding man replies.

Dean's about to comment on the point at the top of the dude's shiny head when Sam steers him away by the shoulder. "The eye in the sky is watching," he whispers, referring to the blue globes in the ceiling everyone knows are security cameras.

"Then the great and powerful Oz knows that kid's mom totally grabbed my ass."

"She did not."

"Did so," Dean asserts. "Had fingernails as long as pencils, too. I bet she left a mark," he says, tugging at the waistband of his jeans with a smirk. "You wanna see?"

"No!"

"You protest too much, Sammy."

"Oh, believe me, I could protest a lot more if you make me. Now, c'mon, there's something I wanna show you."

It's like they're kids again as Sam tries to lead Dean through the store by his elbow. "I'm coming, Sam. You're not ten anymore, ya know. What' s the big hurry anyway?"

Sam keeps walking like he can't stop for anything, eyes fixed on the other end of the store. "I just wanna show you something. You'll love it. I promise."

Dean shakes his head but follows anyway. He's played this game before. When Sam was a kid, a trip to Wal-Mart was like a trip to the amusement park, and the stuff he wanted to show Dean usually involved long battles against the puppy eyes and leaving the store feeling like shit because he couldn't afford to buy whatever it was Sam wanted. Dean's in no hurry to find out what it is they can't afford, and takes every opportunity to dawdle. To his advantage, Wal-Mart is full of cheap crap you can't find anywhere else. He doesn't really need a 'My First Electric Guitar,' or a 'My first ant farm,' but he studies them both like he's trying to make an informed consumer decision, pretending not to hear Sam's exasperated sigh behind him.

"Dean, over here," Sam says, and because Dean can't ignore him any longer, he turns around.

"Whattaya know?" he says, despite himself, "Sunglasses I haven't tried on yet."

"Yeah," Sam smirks. "A whole rack of 'em."

"Thatta boy, Sam. I knew I kept you around for something."

"Don't mention it, man. Knock yourself out. I'm gonna be right over here."

Dean almost nods, thinks better of it, and instead gives a short, "K," without looking where Sam is headed. 'Cause, you know, oooh, shiny. He's totally become a hoarder. He's like a crazy cat lady only with sunglasses. Sam's talking to someone, and Dean thinks maybe he hears his own name come up, but that's to be expected. Women ask Sam about his hot "friend" all the time. Dean just snickers and continues pawing through the display.

"Hey, these are lots nicer than the ones we looked at the other day," he says over his shoulder. "Good eye." He looks closer. "But why aren't there any price tags on these."

Sam clears his throat and mumbles, "Because they're prescription..."

"They're wh...?" Dean turns to find Sam leaning against a counter, a woman in white lab coat with a clipboard smiling back at him. And how did he go from cheap starter guitars to the eye center without noticing?

"You're Dean, right?" the woman asks. "You're just in time for your appointment. You can go right back."

"Saaaaamm," Dean growls. It's a God's honest growl. No mincing of the underlying threat to kick his sasquatch ass.

"Dean, I know there's something wrong with your eyes," Sam admits. "Between the sunglasses, parking in the shade, the squinting, rubbing at your forehead. And now you don't trust yourself with a gun."

Dean softens a little. Either he's totally lost his lying through his teeth mojo, or Sam's been watching to many of those old Sherlock Holmes movies. "There's nothing wrong with my..."

The doctor comes out of the examination room, looks down his nose at the receptionist's clipboard. "And which one of you is Dean."

Sam scowls. "Dean would be the stubborn jackass over there wearing sunglasses inside the store."

"Come on back, son," the doc says beckoning with his arm, cordial smile on his face.

"No," Dean waffles, "there's been a mistake. See, my brother, he gets these ideas... crazy, crazy ideas in his head, and..."

"Then he drags you to the eye doctor without telling you where you're going, right?" The doctor's actually chuckling. "If you only knew how many times I've heard that one. Usually it's the husband won't listen when his wife tells him he's blind as a bat."

Sam hides his laughter in his shoulder.

Before Dean can protest, the doc whose name Dean can read clear as day off his name tag just as soon as he gets close enough, steps out from behind the counter, puts a steady hand between Deans shoulder blades. Dr. Gabriel Houseman. "You can call me House," he chuckles.

"Why don't I call you Chuckles," Dean grumbles.

"Fair enough. Look, you're right. It's not very nice to drag someone to the doctor against their will, but I'm afraid we're going to charge you for the appointment regardless. You might as well get at least a cursory exam," Houseman says. "We can do that from here. Won't even have to go back to the office."

"We can?" Dean's skeptical until he notices the doctor pointing at an eye chart on the far wall. "Oooh, oh suure. I mean, yeah, okay. If it'll get Sam of my back," he says. No need to tell the good doctor he memorized the standard eye exam charts one time while he was up all night waiting for Dad to come home and didn't have anything better to do. He'd thought it might come in handy some day. Turns out, he was right.

"Fine, then," the doctor says, steering him around to face the chart. "Toe up to the line."

Dean makes a show of toeing up, first too far forward, then too far back, this way, that way, almost puts a little hip into it and does merengue hands, the strains of "Hungry Eyes," filtering through the fog in his brain. Until the doctor adds, "and take off the sunglasses."

Dean stops. "No, that's okay. I can do it with the glasses on, see?" And he squints at the chart just long enough to figure out which version he's looking at, then starts rattling off the letters in order. He doesn't notice Sam come up behind him until the glasses lift off his face. Dean grunts against the sudden change in brightness but keeps reciting letters through clenched teeth. His ears are ringing, but he's not sure if it's the headache flaring up or just embarrassment from having everyone stare at him.

"Shit..." Sam gasps. "Dean, what's wrong with your eye?"

Dean doesn't have to ask which eye. Dr. Houseman's already got his hand on Dean's face, thumb prodding at the skin around his right eye and pulling down on the eyelid to look at the sclera.

"Nothing," Dean hisses. "It's just a little red."

"How long has it been like this?" the doctor asks.

"Um, I dunno," Dean shrugs. "It kinda comes and goes."

"Dean..." The disappointment...okay, let's be honest, the friggin' _pity_ in Sam's voice is just about enough to earn him a kick in the shins, because it's his own damned fault he has to see the angry red of the eye. If he'd just minded his own business, Dean would've snagged a bottle of Visine or three from the pharmacy and Sam wouldn't be looking at him like he's one of those one-eyed puppies at the animal shelter no one wants to adopt.

"Dude, it's nothing."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam's beyond sympathetic and working his way up to well and truly pissed. Way to end an otherwise decent day. "Then why the sunglasses? And why didn't you tell me about it?"

"Juuust, hold on a minute," Houseman intervenes, a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You did your job, son. You got him here, didn't you? Now, just let me handle it. You can settle the rest of your business after I send him home." Sam nods, glaring at Dean for a second before dropping his gaze to the floor, hands shoved in his pockets.

Houseman turns back to Dean. "That eye is definitely a little inflamed. Could be any number of things. Do you have any other symptoms? Vertigo, blurred vision, photosensitivity?" On the last word, Houseman draws a pen light out of his coat pocket and... Turns. It. On.

The result is instantaneous, and not a lot different from getting struck by lightning. Dean should know.

Once upon a time, some dumbass fired his gun up into the sky, and a short time later, some poor dude standing in his driveway dropped over dead when the bullet fell from the sky and embedded itself in his brain.

Dean wishes he was that guy, because this? This, searing, blinding, jaw clenching, knee buckling, gut twisting, bolt of agony that rips through him just then? It really fucking sucks. He hisses through it, arms wrapped around his stomach, hoping the next gasping breath doesn't take his Italian sub with it on the way out. It's trying it's darndest to put in a second appearance. Dean's throat works to swallow the flood of saliva slicking his mouth, cheeks wet from biting back the burn, and his stomach's turned three laps around his gut and taken a tour of chest cavity from the feel of it. He just keeps his teeth closed over the scream and his fists clenched in... whatever they're clenched in that's keeping him off the floor, and waits, eyes clamped shut.

It takes forever to pass, another eternity before his muscles loosen enough for him to even attempt to crack open his eyes. Hands on him. On his shoulders, supporting his back, prying apart his fingers. He feels himself being tipped back, clutches tighter, realizes it's Sam he's holding onto. At least, Sam's jeans, just below the knee, probably because his own knees are throbbing and crushed between his body and the vinyl floor. Shit, there's no saving face from that, but he's not gonna be laid out on the floor for everyone in the store to ogle on their way out, so he struggles forward, presses his forehead into Sam's thigh to stop it feeling loose on his neck like it's about to topple off.

Sam's hand rests for a second on the top of his head, then jerks back, and Dean wants to say something like, 'I'm not gonna break, Sam,' but then Sam might put his hand back, and Dean's too winded, his head too foggy to think of an appropriate response to that. The doctor kneels beside him, his lab coat scuffing along the floor loud enough to be made of sandpaper, and puts a hand between Dean's shoulder blades, half rub and half pat.

"I'll take that as a yes," he says.

And ain't that the understatement of the century?

TBC


End file.
